I Couldn't Love You if I Tried
by Clockwork Storyteller
Summary: Romano feels that there is something missing between himself and England, but he doesn't want to face the words just yet. [Completed]


The hot brush of his fingers made the smaller melt. He hated this whole situation but it was not as if he was jumping out of it quickly enough for his discomfort to show. This was all they had boiled down to, meaningless encounters when no one was around. Hot, sweaty flesh and the smell of each other in the bedsheets. It was not worth it.

The shudder and gasp that the other made tore him away from his melancholy thoughts and he remembered at least to tangle his hands in the blond hair. He hated this. Meaninglessness had finally gotten to him and he lay awake far longer than he ever had before, usually too tired from their activity to even think straight. Tonight was different, a stray conversation stayed with him and he gulped down the words that were not meant for him until they unsettled his stomach.

_"There is a fine line between love and sex. It will be different for everyone, but trust me when I say that you will know the difference. If you want one and have the other, you will ache."_ At first he had thought the words had haunted him because of his critical commentary. Fucking French drama queen, he had muttered. François had gone off on another dramatic spiel of these stupid love lectures he kept up his sleeve. Why this particular one stayed with him until now was beyond him. He was not even friendly with the Frenchman. Something or other about fate came to mind. He was fated to hear the conversation, it was his guiding light in the matter that had been gnawing at him for a while now.

This was not love. He looked so angry when he came out of the shower that morning and looked in the mirror. He was going to kill François later, for that stupid speech. It had not been good before, but it had been _better._ He had not had a solid yes or no in his mind. However, now it was a glaring "no" and he needed to find a way out of the corner he had gotten himself into. Again, he was stuck. The Englishman did not seem the least bit bothered by their carnal acts meaning nothing but a quick destressor, if even that.

He choked down the urge to punch the mirror. Once he was dressed, he walked out of the motel and cursed. Some prostitutes were making their way to their job sites to try and squeeze one last client in before daybreak. He saw them as they made their way out the motel and to their posts, a sudden notion hitting him.

"Fuck, I am no better than them." He sighed, walking with his bag slung over his shoulder lazily. He stopped cold when he heard a reply.

"Yer actually worse. Least we ge' paid. N you? What d'you get?" The speaker pressed the cigarette she had neglected in favor of retorting back to her lips.

Lovino had nothing to say. She was right, god, she was right. He ran his hand through his hair in distress and cursed again.

He needed to get out of the situation, but who could had ask for help? He sank on a bench and shook until he felt sick. He could vent to Feliciano but he knew the younger would not be able to give him a response. He could try Spain but that might result with Arthur getting punched in the face by an angry former enemy and himself being treated like a fragile child. He could swallow his pride and ask François. Or would he have to admit overhearing the conversation and be accused of eavesdropping?

He decided that for the moment, simply going to his hotel room and taking a drink of some Italian wine was the best course of action. He ordered a dry, white wine and sighed as he drank it.

He laid on his bed and made up his mind. Or maybe it was the alcohol that had made him braver. He needed the Frenchman's help whether he liked it or not (he detested it) and he would go get the advice. He did not think anymore and simply bolted. He went to find the other's room, already knowing where to look. He made his way up toward the right room. 107… 109… 111…. 125… 132… 147!

He knocked, nearly out of breath, no regard to the clock in the hall showing the time. He was disturbing François' sleep, heaven forbid it was a beauty rest. He was standing out in the hallway of the fourteenth floor, waiting for the door to open at 3:47 on a Tuesday morning and they had a meeting later that day!

"Open up… open up! Fucking hell open—" He ran his fingers through his hair desperately. "Open the fucking…" Before he could finish, he choked out in pleas. He really needed to settle this matter, his heart was pounding and he felt like he was about to be sick right outside the door. How disgraceful. He was shaking and cursing more when the door rattled open.

"Lovino, are you… stupid question… come in. What's wrong?" His voice was too slurred and sleepy, the Italian nearly lost his nerve. He would be no good for advice now.

"I need your help. Please, France, I know we don't get along but hell… you're the only one I could think of…" He blurted shakily.

"Ah… 'Sit about love? Before you ask, I am used to even my least favorite people coming to me for such a thing. Russia, even, once."

He nodded and let himself be led to the bed, collapsing into it as if he had never taken a seat in his whole life. The other raised his eyebrow and soothed him.

"It is not love."

"I haven't even told you the situation!" The younger protested.

"Exactly, I already know. You have an odd arrangement with Arthur but that is not love. He could not love you."

"You're fucking biased I should have known better…" Romano groaned. François planted a soft hand on his shoulder.

"What motivation do I have to steal him from you, then? Or you from him? I am perfectly happy spreading my love elsewhere."

"You're a prostitute, then?"

"Don't be so vulgar! No, there are more ways to spread love than with sexual relations… which is why I tell you, you do not have love there."

"How the hell could you possibly know that?"

"He came to me about a month ago, the same question as you and explained the situation. That is not love. That is a quick fix for an itch. Nothing more. You love him, but he does not love you."

"How…"

"You're crying, you swallowed your enormous pride to come ask me of all people for advice and you look like you are about to be sick."

"That might just be the wine, you know… I did have a little too much!" He huffed defensively.

"Fine, that accounts for you feeling sick, for you crying and for you swallowing your pride enough to ask for help. It does not explain how you made it to my room, looking specifically for me. You had a clear enough head for that."

France had him there. He did go directly to the other, making up his mind directly on the matter. With a heavy sigh, he flopped backward on the bed.

"Are you really bragging about this?"

"No, I was not bragging at all. Just thought I'd let you know that you were looking for a helping hand. No matter how you deny it."

"Can I sleep here tonight?"

"Let me have your room then. I won't share a bed with you like this."

"What, you think I would climb all over you or something?" The Italian scoffed. "Conceited son of a—"

"No, I just thought you should be alone for the night. Rest easier and not have to deal with me in the morning."

Him being so considerate nearly made Lovino sick. He felt bad about the situation and displacing the other like this. He would find a way to make it up to him.

…

…

He felt as if he was burning. The wine could not have done this, he had had that exact kind of wine many times before. It was not the wine. It was what he was about to do.

"Arthur…."

"What happened last night? You didn't even leave together with me."

"I'm sorry, I don't think we should ah…. Do you love me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you love me?"

"Romano, not now. We have a meeting."

"I have to know… besides America is always late and you know that best of all. Just—"

"There's a first time for everything and I would really not like to have him hold it over my head if he were on time and—"

"He's gonna be late and you know it! Do you love me?" His voice was cracking.

The pause was too long. He felt like he was drowning. The pause said it all. _No. _"Well?" He didn't realize he was shaking until he saw Hungary tap Belgium on the shoulder and motion toward him. Not a scene, please, he pleaded.

"I don't think so. I know how you are outside of… well, _that._ You're arrogant, selfish, crude, childish, and I could not handle that. No. I am certain."

The concerned glances the two women were throwing his way was nearly as painful as the words themselves. Make it stop, he begged. No, this was wrong. François was supposed to be wrong and he was supposed to rub it in the Frenchman's face. No. "I couldn't love you if I tried."

The gasps that broke out from the small crowd of people that had gathered made his breath unsteadier. Why did they all have to stand around and gawk?

He felt himself running and realized he had not moved at all, the rush was others making their way in, closing in like vultures to pick the kill clean. Arthur was making his way out of the masses and into the meeting hall, not really in the mood to stand around as Romano pitched a fit.

_I couldn't love you if I tried. _


End file.
